


By Gaslight

by LeaveMeInPeace



Series: Gaslight [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Algernon Charles Swinburne - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Angst and Porn, Dom Sherlock, F/M, Sexual Roleplay, Sexual Tension, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sub Molly, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 10:52:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6800746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeaveMeInPeace/pseuds/LeaveMeInPeace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly responds to a series of mysterious notes left on her bedside table, inviting her to a secret location in London near St. Barts.  Written on notepaper in fine fountain pen, emblazoned with a picture of Edgar Allan Poe, she knew exactly who had penned them...</p>
            </blockquote>





	By Gaslight

**Author's Note:**

> This is Part 2 of [Four-In-Hand](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2352074/chapters/5189324). If you haven't already I suggest you read that before you start. Although not strictly necessary, it will give you more insight into Sherlock's Victorian kink and what brings him and Molly together.

 

 

Molly would be at Bart's until near six tonight. Luckily the address she was to visit was in Clerkenwell, a mere five minute walk from the hospital.

She had a particularly vile autopsy due to start at half two - a Thames drowning - she always hated those as they stunk the worst.

"Come as you are", the note demanded. "Be prompt".

Luckily she held sway over which of the autopsies would be used to teach the pathologist interns - she'd used the excuse that due to the condition of the body (over 96 hours old, found partially submerged by the East India Dock Road) she'd rather ease them in to a drowning death.  Perhaps a pool drowning, something less horrid to start.  Stamford agreed, and this all but assured she'd finish on time,  several of the interns were almost too adept at asking questions and they'd only slow her down.

 

 *     *     *

 

Molly glanced quickly at her watch as she hurried down Grand Avenue through Smithfield Market.  It was 6:52 pm.  Her best laid plans had gone awry - she wasn't expecting the body to be delayed two hours arriving from the morgue at the Royal London Hospital - something about paperwork from the Met.  She'd have to have a word with Lestrade about this next time - she had a schedule to keep!  Her hair was in shambles as she didn't have time to shower, her shoes still covered with... she didn't want to think about it.  Come as you are, indeed.

The sign above the door read "The Rookery".  It was a boutique hotel housed in a Georgian-era building, looking a bit out of place wedged between a Barburrito and an Itsu - at least they'd tried to keep the area looking somewhat traditional with the buildings across the road done in terra-cotta brickwork, at least the one where Barburrito was situated was Edwardian.  

Upon entering, however, she quickly forgot about the gentrification of Clerkenwell, her eyes meeting the familiar face of Anastasia, the sales clerk from Harrods.

Greeting her with a warm hug she then moved toward the door, locking it.  Molly gave her a puzzled grin.

"Isn't this..." 

"There are no other guests here, Molly."

"How did he get a whole... hotel?"

"He knows people. People who can send the owners away on a holiday in Spain for three whole months - while the guests are told it's closed for renovations.  I've run you a bath."

Molly breathed a sigh of relief.   "I could murder a bath right now... post-mortems with drowners are always the worst.   Did you know that a body will decompose much fas..."

"I'm not Sherlock," Anastasia interrupted, holding her hand up to stop Molly's explanation.  "Although I'm sure he would be thrilled to hear all about it.  Now we must hurry, Molly.  He expects you to be ready no later than half-eight."  

Molly followed Anastasia up the stairs to the first floor, entering a room with a free-standing copper bath in the centre.   

"You can enjoy your bath and have a bit of a relax while I get your outfit ready.  I hope the water isn't too warm..."

"The hotter the better, all the better to rid the stench of death."  Anastasia crinkled her nose, handing Molly a fluffy cream-coloured towel.  

"What will I be dressed as?"

"Oh, you shall see. And no worries as to the quality of the guise. You will feel every bit the part, and it will fit you splendidly. He had it specially made. For you."

"How did he..."

"I take excellent notes.  I'll leave you to it," Anastasia said, closing the door behind her and leaving Molly to scrub herself clean.

No sooner had she finished rinsing off the lavender scented soap and wrapped the towel around her than Anastasia returned, carrying in a fine Victorian emerald green dress.  

Molly's jaw dropped.  It was sleeveless with a bodice covered in intricate beadwork, the waist tapering down to the skirts which were slim in the front and sides, the back ballooning out over a bustle framework.  It was beautiful - like something straight out of a Brontë novel.  

"Sherlock told me to assure you that this is modern fabric.  No arsenic."

"He's nothing if not thoughtful!" Molly guffawed.  "It's gorgeous, isn't it?" 

"That it is.  But you might not be so enamoured with the next bit..." 

Anastasia moved to hang the dress on the back of the door, before returning to the room with a torturous-looking corset and a pair of comical cotton drawers.  

"He insists that _everything_ you wear is _of the time,_ " she laughed.

Molly rolled her eyes.  Sherlock was definitely a stickler for detail, so it did not surprise her in the least.  She was thankful to have Anastasia there - performing the role of something akin to a ladies' maid - the dress and corset did not look like clothing that would be easy for her to manage on her own.   

Soon enough she was ready.  Anastasia was not only a wizard with fashion, she was also an incredible hairdresser.  In just over half an hour she'd created an incredible up-do with Molly's hair, all pinned up with a diamond encrusted comb.  

"Now don't lose it," she'd warned.  "It's every bit as real as it looks."

Handing her a heavy brass key, Anastasia ushered Molly to the door.  

"Second Floor.  It's the only room up there. Now hurry and don't stop to look at the paintings on the way up the stairs - he'll have my head if you're late.  Remember to hold up your skirts!"  

Molly gave Anastasia a quick thank you kiss to the cheek before leaving the confines of the room.  She was right - walking in Victorian dress wasn't as easy as it looked, she had to keep a close eye on her skirts as to not take a tumble on the stairs.  

She climbed the steps slowly, luckily it was only two flights to the next floor.  Her corset pinched at her waist as she acscended and she tried desperately to put it out of her mind.  She couldn't imagine wearing one of these on a daily basis, but she supposed it was something that Victorian ladies tolerated but never really got used to.  She stopped in front of a heavy oak door with brass letters.   _The Rook's Nest._

She made a small knock at the door and waited.  Nothing. Then she remembered she had a key.  

Turning it slowly in the lock, she entered a silent, dramatically decorated room.  She gazed at a sumptuous king sized bed, cornered by four ebony cherubs and covered with a striking red duvet with gold embroidery.  Across the room was another bath, this one a stark white porcelain with gold fixtures.  It was lit by gas lamps around the room, casting an ethereal glow over the fine decor.  Her heart suddenly threatened to beat out of her chest as she remembered who she was there for and why.

"Up here, Miss Hooper," a voice called from the loft, which accessible by a winding wooden staircase.  It was definitely Sherlock's familiar baritone, but his accent was a bit more posh around the edges.  Was he... putting on airs for her?  She ascended the staircase slowly, carefully guiding her skirts up the wood steps as she went.  Her corset pinched and pulled, and it was a relief when she made it to the top.

Sherlock sat behind a writing desk in the room, furiously scratching at a piece of paper with a fine fountain pen.   As soon as he saw the top of her head rise above the staircase, he stood to greet her.  He was dressed in a Victorian-era frock coat, a waistcoat and tall leather boots with spats, his poet's curls peeking beneath his top hat and looking perfectly the part.  Molly stood in awe as she admired his wonderfully tight fitted trousers and crisp white wing-tip shirt.  He was an absolute picture - it was as if he was made to dress in these clothes. Her brain suddenly returned to earth as she realised just why she was dressed as she was.

"Rather posh, isn't it?"

"Ironic, given the name. Do you know what a Rookery is, Molly?"

"Has something to do with birds - rooks are like crows... ravens..."

"The Victorians used it as a quaint name for a slum.  Always so quaint, they were.  And such a lark now - this real estate is worth a mint - in Clerkenwell! Oh, had they only seen what was coming... and now we have it to ourselves for a while."

"Sherlock, I..."

"Algernon Charles Swinburne.  Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Hooper."   He reached out for her hand and kissed it, bowing with a flourish as he removed his hat.

The game was on. 

His eyes lit up as he gazed upon her, taking in her full figure as he fiddled delicately with the brim of his hat.  "You look positively... pulchritudinous."  

Molly locked eyes with him, waiting for his next move.  She saw him swallow hard before he turned to face his writing paper.

"You must forgive me, Miss Hooper.  I know it is not decent of me to have you visit my chambers alone.  I dearly hope your fiancé will not become privy to my actions..."

Molly took a step toward him, setting the room key down next to him on the heavy oak desk.  He cleared his throat, grasping the piece of paper on the desk and balling it up between his fingers.

"Come!  Let's sup some wine."

Sherlock (or should she say Algernon) blew out the gas lamp on the desk and took Molly's hand, leading her down the stairs and still clutching the crumpled paper in his other hand.

When they reached the bottom he led her over to the chaise lounge in the corner of the room, guiding her to sit as he shoved the paper into the pocket of his trousers.  He dashed over to a mahogany cabinet, pulling out a dusty bottle of red wine and two glasses.  She took a quick glance at the year on the label and felt faint.  1870.  It must have cost him at _least_ four figures, but more than likely it was obtained by dubious means...

Before she could protest, he had it uncorked and was dashing it into a glass while he took a seat next to her on the lounge.

"You are quite right to speculate why I've summoned you here this evening," he spoke, handing her a glass of wine before pouring his own.  "You see, I am a poet, Miss Hooper, and occasionally I find my mind empty of words.  Yet tonight when I saw you at the ball, I was quite... inspired."

Swinburne.  Now Molly knew where she'd heard the name.  

"I see," she responded meekly, pausing as the wheels in her head turned, desperately trying to retain a tidbit from her British History course at Uni.

 _1870s... 1870s....  germ theory... Louis Pasteur_... she had nothing.

"My fiancé will be none the wiser - he is away in... India.  Hunting tigers." 

The smirk on his lips was nearly imperceptible, but it was there.  

"Thank you," Molly said as she raised her glass to him.  He toasted her and bowed his head as she took a sip of her wine.  "This wine is incredible.  Positively decadent."

"Could be a better vintage - it's only two years old.  I really should have kept this one in the cellar."

 "Indeed.  It would be absolutely incredible in about 140 years.  A shame."

There was that smile again, gone before it even began.  She was enjoying this game a lot.  They played at each other for a while before Molly leaned back on the chaise - between the corset and the wine she was feeling quite lightheaded indeed.

"May I hear your poems, Algernon?" she asked, feeling a bit more bold around him at last.

He cleared his throat and poured her another glass of wine.   She noticed that his hand shook as he poured.  Molly's stomach felt light - he was acting for her, and it made her quiver.  He usually reserved these charms for others and she was merely an observer, but tonight he was putting on a show for her.  

"Well I... I'd rather recite some of my published work.  The rest is not ready for the public consumption yet."

"That's fine... I'd like to hear something, anything.  Would you please?"

He took the wine glass from her hand, setting it on the side table next to one of the gas lamps.

What he whispered in her ear took her breath away...

 _My life is bitter with thy love; thine eyes_  
_Blind me, thy tresses burn me, thy sharp sighs_  
_Divide my flesh and spirit with soft sound,_  
_And my blood strengthens, and my veins abound._

_I pray thee sigh not, speak not, draw not breath;_  
_Let life burn down, and dream it is not death._  
_I would the sea had hidden us, the fire  
_ _(Wilt thou fear that, and fear not my desire?)_  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Indeed [The Rookery](http://www.rookeryhotel.com) is real. I long to stay there... someday...
> 
> Algernon Charles Swinburne? Also real. A weird cat and famous Victorian poet who was quite into S & M. The verses Sherlock whispers in Molly's ear are from his poem "Anactoria".
> 
> Mmm hmm. I said S & M.


End file.
